


You're perfect.

by lil_slug



Series: Welcome to Hawkins, Indiana! [7]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Consensual Underage Sex, Empty Nest Syndrome, F/M, First Time Blow Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Mother-Son Relationship, Mutual Masturbation, One Shot, Parent/Child Incest, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 14:07:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16745431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lil_slug/pseuds/lil_slug
Summary: The day she has dreaded for so long has finally arrived.Sequel to 'A good mother.' and 'No need to hurt yourself.'





	You're perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh wow, this took me so long, it was so fucking hard to write, but I like it. I mean, it feels a bit fragmented.

Joyce Byers knows what she did wrong. She is aware of the terrible sin she committed, and the well deserved punishment will be swift, harsh, but just. Yes, whatever is coming, she deserves it. Contempt, hate, disappointment, _disgust_. Loss.

 

The fact that she willingly, repeatedly, committed crimes not only against the law but also against all morality, against innocence, _crimes against humanity_ , is an objective truth. For almost two years she didn‘t think twice, but the sinner doesn‘t have to feel the guilt in the middle of the act. No, to most criminals the guilt only comes once they are caught. That‘s the whole point of Hell. In Joyce‘s understanding of morals, that makes it worse, of course.

 

Because she doesn‘t really regret the deed. She regrets the situation she found herself in five minutes ago; Sitting on the living room couch next to her sons in complete silence, without looking at them. That‘s not the worst part. No, contrary to popular belief, Joyce can go a few minutes without looking at Jonathan and Will. But when they refuse to look at her, that‘s a cause for alarm.

 

Not that she could blame them - they‘re in shock. Joyce is too, and to be honest she feels sick to the bone. The position they‘re sitting in just makes it worse. The irony of Joyce and Jonathan framing Will like caring parents during a family movie night is disgusting. If Joyce looked ten years younger, and if Jonathan looked ten years older, someone spying in through the living room window could look at the three of them and say „Wow, what a perfect nuclear family.“

 

But nothing is perfect right now. What is Will going to do? Tell someone what he just saw? The only one who could do anything about it would be Hopper. As Chief of Police it would be his duty to act, but Joyce is fairly sure he‘d let her off the hook. That is, unless Will tells him _everything_. Hopper knows Jonathan. He knows how grown up Joyce‘s elder son is, how he is able to consent. But Will... that‘s probably where his understanding would reach its limits. Although, Will never spoke about the incident after that night a few months back, and it only happened once.

 

Joyce takes a deep, shaky breath, laying out words, trying to figure out something. In her utter desperation she just wishes to fill the silence.

 

Will does that for her, though. It‘s been a brutally long time. So many cold, dreadful minutes. Her younger son speaks up, his voice small and lost, but certainly not cold or hateful like Joyce would have expected after what he‘s witnessed.

 

* * *

 

„Jon?“ Joyce has long stopped caring for whatever relationship crisis the TV is assaulting them with. It‘s always the same; Wealthy families with wealthy-family problems. Money. Inheritance. Breakups. Arranged marriages. Sickness. Beautiful people who somehow still look beautiful, with perfect makeup and hairstyles, even when they lie dying in hospital beds. Nothing so essential and threatening as the problem Joyce has been facing for so many months, ever since she started counting the days until the inevitable.

 

„Yeah?“ Jonathan hums next to her. His hand closes tight around her shoulder, and Joyce snuggles into his muscular form. She can‘t speak. „It‘s okay, mom. Two more months. Let‘s just enjoy the summer, okay?“

 

Joyce would say something in the lines of _‚I can‘t!‘_ , or _‚Please don‘t leave me!‘_ , if it wasn‘t so unfair. It‘s Jonathan‘s life. His very own story, and whatever selfish needs overwhelm Joyce whenever she thinks about him leaving for New York, she has no right to interfere. He has worked so hard for so many years. All Joyce can say is „It‘s okay. Sorry, I shouldn‘t have started.“

 

„Why? I know it‘s hard. I‘m gonna miss you too. And Will. You know that, right?“

 

„Of course I know that.“ Joyce groans, inching even closer to him, until their thighs touch. Her finger traces a small trail down his sternum. „And I don‘t wanna make it worse. You deserve to be care free for once.“

 

„Care free?“ he laughs, honestly amused but with bitterness lingering below. „That doesn‘t exist.“ His words feel like a small hit to the guts for Joyce. It should exist. „There‘s gonna be bills to pay... papers... deadlines... jobs... But I‘m not gonna change my mind about New York.“

 

Joyce exhales with the eeriest combination of sorrow and relief. „That‘s good. You‘re gonna make it. And you‘re gonna be so, _so_ happy.“

 

„You‘re gonna be happy too.“ Jonathan retorts. „I‘ll make sure of it.“ Slowly, torturously, his hand wanders down her arm, causing goosebumps all over Joyce‘s body. The gentle touch reaches her wrist, from where it glides over to her thigh. It doesn‘t take long for her nipples to poke against the fabric of her bra. It‘s good to know where this evening is headed. The TV is boring her anyways.

 

„I‘m happy when my sons are happy.“ Joyce smiles up at him. „That‘s all I ever wanted.“

 

„Really?“ Jonathan murmurs into her ear with a teasing undertone. „Then you don‘t want this?“

 

Joyce gasps against her son‘s neck when his hand makes another turn, this time slipping up her thigh on the inside. It comes so close to where she wants it, to where she _needs_ it. She doesn‘t care for the barrier that her jeans put between Jonathan‘s fingers and her core. If she could just feel him there. But tonight he obviously wants to take it slow.

 

She hungrily pulls him down into a long, desperate kiss, which is probably exactly what he wanted. He continues teasing in the worst, the best way possible. His skill with handling Joyce is unprecedented, but then again it‘s been almost two years since they started all this. Joyce feels herself leaking.

 

„Jon.“

 

„I know.“ His voice is low in her ear. „I know how much you need it.“

 

Joyce‘s insides thrum at the sound of his words. Soon, but not soon enough, they are on their way to the bedroom, with little to none of their clothes remaining. Jonathan is gentle. Gentle but insistent. He takes control, because that‘s what Joyce needs most.

 

During the day there‘s this constant urge to keep everyone safe. To make the money she needs to feed her family, to stay in command as the overseer who makes sure nothing bad ever happens. But at night, right here in her bedroom, Joyce actually luxuriates in the knowledge that they‘re all safe and sound, even with someone else pulling the strings.

 

It‘s okay. She lets him pin her arms above her head. She goes pliant, just giving in to his touch as he enters her. But the needy arousal won‘t be satisfied by just this. Joyce just goes from feeling empty to feeling pure, heavenly agony. The agony of being full but not quite _there_ yet.

 

But because Jonathan knows her just too well, he picks up pace. His free hand caresses every part of her body that‘s exposed to him. Only when the nimble digits end up where they really belong does the agony dissolve into ecstasy. He works her up slowly, because the payoff will be more than worthwhile. For a minute or two, her clit doesn‘t even receive a single touch. And when it does, Joyce‘s legs spasm once. Twice. Every time his thumb brushes over her they jolt to either side of him.

 

Joyce struggles a bit. Partly because it‘s just so much, almost too much, but mostly because she wants to know how far he will go at pinning her down. How much dominance she can actually coax out him. She finds that she‘d probably have to fight with all her strength to get her hands free. So, she continues to writhe and wiggle just to enjoy that feeling of being fucked while held in place by strong but loving hands.

 

„Please!“ Joyce gasps involuntarily. „Jon, please!“ Although she has no idea what she is actually asking for, because there is no way she wants to climax right now. No, she needs it to go on and on, higher and higher to soar in heights unknown to mankind. Joyce wants to go blind with pleasure. There‘s no need to tell Jonathan this. He _knows,_ and that‘s why he keeps the pace expertly chosen to keep her right where she is, only inches away from the crest of a wave that is just waiting to roll over her.

 

Whatever was bothering her earlier today, it‘s forgotten now. Joyce‘s moans are swallowed by her son, her body moves in a climbing rhythm without her having to do anything but lie down and let it happen. Jonathan wouldn‘t allow anything else anyways. He is as lost in the act as Joyce is, with his eyes closed and lips parted whenever they don‘t clash with hers.

 

„Mom?“

 

That wasn‘t Jonathan‘s voice. And it all comes crashing down then. The wave clashes against an indestructible wall of ferroconcrete and dread. Will shouldn‘t be here. He and his friends are having a sleepover at the Sinclairs‘ house tonight. And yet he is here, standing right in the open door in the middle of the night, a pile of clothes in his hands, that he must have found out in the hall where the two scattered them. And there‘s no doubt his widened doe eyes have seen everything. Her. Jonathan. In the middle of the act, on top of the covers with the bedside lamp illuminating their joint bodies. It‘s all over.

 

* * *

 

And now, there‘s nothing but regret. Whatever she and Jonathan did together, no matter how fulfilling it was, they could have refrained from it and lived happily as a healthy family. There won‘t be a Byers family after this night. It‘s the last time they‘re all gathered on the couch together, several inches separating them as if touching each other would cause them all blisters and burn marks.

 

Joyce could wind up in jail. Jonathan too. And they‘d take Will away from her, put him in some home or foster family. She single-handedly ruined both their futures. After all they‘ve been through together, this is supposed to be the end? If it wasn‘t so sad, it would be ridiculous. They braved an interdimensional threat and a government conspiracy, just to end up torn apart by Joyce‘s inner whore. A side of herself she should have under control.

 

And Joyce really is prepared to apologize, for what it‘s worth. To tell Will, who is sitting to her left with Jonathan on the other side, it‘s okay if he hates her now, it‘s okay if he calls Hopper. Neither of them have forgotten last year; how she helped him. How callous bitch Joyce Byers molested her thirteen year old, possibly traumatizing him. Really, she‘d say anything to stop the silence and the staring at the blank TV screen.

 

Will preempts her, though. „Jonathan?“ Fair enough. He doesn‘t have to talk to her if he doesn‘t want to.

 

„Huh?“ his older brother says, emotionless.

 

Will falls back into his shocked silence for a while. Joyce manages to look at him. He‘s chewing at his bottom lip, his jaw quivering. The shock is still plastered all over his perfect, soft features. A minute later, he finally goes on, still talking to his older brother. „I‘m glad it‘s you.“

 

„W-what?“ Jonathan flinches where he‘s sitting. Joyce does the same.

 

„I said, I‘m glad it‘s you.“ Will‘s voice turns unyielding and so admirably honest when he breaks the spell that binds them all to their spots on the couch by plunging over to Jonathan to end up half in his lap. Joyce watches in awe as Jonathan‘s arms close around his younger brother‘s slender frame. The sight makes it impossible to just remain glued to the couch.

 

Her two boys finally in her arms again, she allows herself to sob. „How? I‘m such a terrible-“

 

„No!“ Will cries. „Y-you‘re great, mom. I love you.“

 

Out of the three of them, Jonathan is probably trembling the most right now. „Bud, do you even get what we were doing?“

 

„I‘m not a little child.“ Will says firmly, but muffled by his face pressed in Jonathan‘s shirt. „I‘m _glad_ it‘s you.“

 

„But _why,_ sweetie?“ Joyce feels as if her entire existence is dissolving into love for her sons, although she doesn‘t understand how Will can stay by her side after this. „It wasn‘t... right.“ Jonathan looks at her, something like hurt widening his eyes. „You know it wasn‘t, honey.“ Joyce adds. „But it‘s my fault.“

 

„Mom, I could‘ve stopped it.“ Jonathan groans. „You didn‘t force me, I could‘ve said no!“

 

„Stop!“ Will pipes up. „Stop! Jonathan...“ He seems to be fighting to find the right words, clearing his throat, fumbling with his fingers behind Jonathan‘s back. „You‘re better than anyone else for... I mean... you‘d never hurt mom, a-and you‘re...“

 

Joyce watches as Will leans over to whisper something. She can‘t hear it. It‘s not made for her ears, and that‘s okay. All she knows is, Will‘s words have Jonathan in silent tears. Joyce pulls her family close again after that and doesn‘t let go. Minute after minute, until the clock on the wall has advanced more than an hour.

 

All while the fleeting realization that everything is going to be okay overcomes and leaves her periodically. Every time Joyce focuses. Every time she consciously breathes in her sons, it hits her with full force; Will understands. The three of them, bearers of a secret that ties into their family bond like a titanium reinforcement, will never let this world tear them apart.

 

* * *

 

The two months that follow, the months that mark the final days of Jonathan living in Hawkins, are possibly among the happiest times Joyce has ever lived through. It contradicts all intuition, it goes against everything that‘s right in this world, but she and her sons are now even closer, if that‘s possible. Joyce is not sure it is, because nothing ever got between them before anyways.

 

She and Jonathan live with an added layer of freedom during these eight weeks, the sanctuary that her bedroom posed on weekends when Will wasn‘t around having extended to their entire house. They can be themselves. They can be a couple, as terrible as that would sound to an outsider. Will doesn‘t mind them spending time arm in arm. They kiss. They don‘t sneak around anymore, they don‘t carefully spy around every corner before spending the night together, no matter if they‘re just planning to sleep, or actually doing more.

 

One night Jonathan even confides with her what Will told him that evening on the couch, _„He said I‘m the best dad he could wish for.“,_ and while it tears both laughter and a dry sob from her, Joyce is sure Will was right. She knew all along he felt about Jonathan as a father ever since Lonnie skipped town. That means it‘s all but official now; Father, mother, child. That‘s what the Byers family is, finally.

 

But not indefinitely. Their days are numbered, and Joyce, Jonathan and Will all know it. Summer ends, and so does their time together.

 

Joyce doesn‘t sleep a second that final night. Her gaze shifts between Jonathan‘s frame, naked and well-defined under her covers, and the digital alarm clock that is taunting her with the countdown to 9AM. Six hours. Five hours. Joyce stays awake, fearing the second the alarm is set to go off. Jonathan sleeps because he has to. Tomorrow‘s trip will be long and exhausting. Their lovemaking was passionate, so needy and heavy with their hearts weighing them down.

 

Time flies. Every time Joyce‘s eyes wander back to the alarm clock, it‘s been another ten minutes of watching. Of _feeling_ , trying to take in and memorize as much of his body as she can. Joyce‘s hand moves slowly but insistently, until it has run across every inch of bare skin. She repeats this. Again and again, until the alarm clock finally shows 5:50. That‘s when Joyce reaches over to turn it off. Her son deserves better.

 

Jonathan stiffens in her hand, still fast asleep but moaning softly when Joyce begins to lightly stroke him. Is she causing him a dream? A good one in which all is soft and heated with pleasure? She hopes. Her mouth kisses and nibbles on the skin of his neck, damp with night sweat. The sun has yet to appear behind the trees, so Jonathan‘s face is almost invisible in the dark. Joyce‘s ears pick up his unconscious cries of pleasure, though, and her body feels him writhing, bucking into her hand desperately.

 

A long sigh falls past his lips when his entire body tenses, back arched and lifted off the bed. He falls back into the sheets, coating Joyce‘s hand in liquid warmth. „Mom? W-what time is it?“ Jonathan stretches in the sheets and brings an arm around her.

 

„Shh.“ Joyce hushes. „It‘s almost 6.“

 

„Half an hour?“ Jonathan whispers. „I just-“

 

„I know. It‘s okay, sweetie.“ Joyce goes from her propped up position to resting her head on his smooth chest. Jonathan‘s heartbeat is fast. If it‘s from the pleasure she‘s just given him or from nervousness, Joyce can‘t tell. It‘s irrelevant, what‘s about to happen is inevitable.

 

They stay in bed for another hour, just bathing in the warmth of their combined body heat. Only when Will‘s light footsteps tap up and down the hall, from his room to the bathroom and back, do they break apart and get dressed for the day. By that time, Joyce can barely hold herself on her feet after a sleepless night.

 

She makes breakfast nonetheless, while her sons softly talk to each other at the kitchen table. The sizzling bacon drowns out their quiet words for the most part, but there can only be one topic they‘re talking about. They‘re tense, they don‘t stop holding hands across the table even when it makes one-handed eating awkward and messy.

 

10AM approaches fast. Every minute Joyce spends on the couch with her little family, speechless, daunting expectations filling her head, sends her deeper into her tired desperation.

 

When it‘s time, Jonathan speaks. „You know, last night I thought I should just leave before you‘re awake. You‘re not making it easy.“ His smile is gentle and forgiving, and Joyce realizes he isn‘t even joking.

 

She releases him from her tight grip. „I wouldn‘t have let you.“

 

„Yeah.“ he acknowledges sadly. „You stayed up all night, huh?“

 

„Couldn‘t sleep.“ Joyce utters. „I know we said 10, but... I mean, an hour won‘t hurt, right?“

 

„I pushed all this back a week already.“ Jonathan shakes his head. „The apartment‘s been ready for two. It‘s time.“ Sighing, he gets up from the couch. „What‘s left to say?“

 

It‘s not the first time that Joyce feels the need to yell. To sob, fall into his arms and beg him not to go. She knows as well as her boys that once Jonathan steps outside the house, he will stop living here. Forever. He will sit in his car that has been packed for three days already, step on the gas and make his way to a place thousands of miles away. And he won‘t be back for months.

 

„Do you wanna take a look at everything?“ Will suggests.

 

„You mean the house? No. That‘d make it harder. I think I‘m just gonna... gonna go.“

 

One step at a time they all head for the door, where Jonathan‘s keys are dangling from one hook, the last jacket he has left in the house from the other. He reaches for it. He pulls over the jacket, drops the rattling keys in the pockets. And then he pulls open the door. His car is there, close to the house, trunk bursting full, backseat full with stacked bags.

 

Joyce doesn‘t know what she expected. A ceremony? A goodbye committee? No, nothing like that. This is her son leaving for New York, to a cheap apartment, supplied by Hopper‘s best friend from Vietnam. A place Jonathan has only ever seen on the few photos that arrived in the mail a month ago. Joyce lets the tears trickle down her cheeks, trying to keep herself from breaking down when he embraces her one last time.

 

„There‘s so much I want to tell you.“ Joyce hands clutch into the front of her son‘s jacket. „I‘m sorry. Jon, I‘m so sorry.“

 

„For what?“ Jonathan laughs into her hair. „You did everything. _Always_.“

 

„I didn‘t have to work to get my family through when I was sixteen.“

 

„Mom, I-“

 

„I don‘t think I‘ve ever worked a night shift in my life, and you-“

 

„Mom!“ Jonathan shakes Joyce‘s shoulders gently. „I didn‘t even pay back a fraction of what I owe you.“

 

Hearing these words, she finally cracks up. _Her son thinks he owes her_. „Bud, get over here.“ Joyce can hear Jonathan say over the sound of her own crying. Will, who has just been watching, probably waiting his turn, almost leaps at them. His smaller frame between them helps a bit. Too late Joyce realizes what is actually happening.

 

Jonathan presses a kiss to Will‘s cheek and her lips. „Love you two.“ he murmurs, pushing Will a bit further into her embrace while detaching himself. Joyce knows just too well that her youngest would come up with an Indiana Jones reference now, if he wasn‘t crying.

 

„Drive safe!“ Joyce yells after Jonathan. „Call when you make a stop! L-look for a motel if the roads are jammed!“ All she can see through blurry, hurting eyes is him waving goodbye. The engine roars and god, Joyce can‘t bring herself to look away until well after the old Ford has disappeared around the bend of the narrow path leading to town.

 

* * *

 

It‘s been what, two hours? Joyce won‘t turn around. She won‘t look at the alarm clock. It‘s a Saturday, she‘s got the day off, but she probably wouldn‘t have been able to go to work. Joyce really thought she‘d be able to sleep now. After all, the terrible moment of letting him go is over. But all she can think of is his shape. How he should be here, hold her, and tell her it‘s okay.

 

The bed smells like him. Jonathan‘s outline might even still be visible in the sheets where he woke up just a few hours ago, when this was still his home. Joyce is careful not to roll over to his side. Maybe, if she turns around, she may be able to convince herself he is still here.

 

A faint knock on the door. „Y-yeah?“ Joyce sighs. Slowly, her bedroom door creaks open.

 

„Just wanted to ask what you wanted for lunch.“ Will mutters, entering. He is still in his pajama shirt and sweatpants. „I could cook, y‘know.“

 

But his face falls when yet another pained sob tears from Joyce. Will‘s speech is slurred, dark rings circling his eyes, and yet he took to what he thinks is his responsibility within hours of his brother leaving. So... is he going to be just another overworked, lonesome sixteen year old in two years time? The thought makes Joyce curl up involuntarily. There is nothing she can do or say to make it better, because even her uttered words „Let‘s just order something...“ will do nothing on the long run.

 

„Okay.“ Will says, relieved. „Anything else you need?“

 

„Sweetie, it‘s okay.“ Joyce assures, struggling to steady herself at least somewhat. „How about you invite your friends over? Pizza is my treat.“

 

„Don‘t feel like it.“ Will just continues to stand there in the open door. „I‘m tired.“

 

Joyce pulls up her blanket a bit further. „Yeah. Me too. Can‘t sleep?“

 

„No.“

 

Not hesitating a second, she pulls the blanket back again. And just like she hoped, having Will next to her like that, an anchor of safety, Joyce‘s aching heart finally grants her some relief. The crying stops. She breathes in her younger son. So clean, so perfect and sweet. Her little boy. Her growing little boy, who is now about as tall as Joyce herself.

 

Her hand rubs his arm. His hands rubs hers. She plants a little kiss on his soft cheek. He does the same. He kisses her again. And again, this time near her jaw, where it tingles and causes goosebumps. Joyce moans. She _wants_ this. She _needs_ this. His flawless lips kissing circles all over her neck. His small, artistic hands slipping past her loose fitting shirt to her breasts. His slender fingers kneading-

 

„Stop. Will, stop.“ Joyce‘s voice is firm when she pulls away from her son.

 

Will‘s previously closed eyes snap open. Joyce hates the hurt she is seeing. But she hates his defeated voice even more. „I-I‘m... sorry. I‘m n-not him, I know.“

 

„No!“ Joyce snaps, harsher than intended. „Will, that‘s not it. I mean... I mean, I don‘t want you to feel like you‘re just filling a gap. You‘re too special for that, sweetie.“

 

 _That‘s right. Ignore the longing. Ignore the heat and the wetness and the fire. It‘s not right!_ she tells herself. _He‘s too young, too innocent, he doesn‘t know what it means!_

 

„Now, do you want to eat first, or get some sleep?“ In an attempt to change topics, Joyce inches closer again and envelops her little boy again. He doesn‘t try again, yawning in response to her question. That‘s good. There is no way Joyce would be able to place a phone call now and still be awake and conscious when the food would arrive.

 

Hopefully Will can forget what just happened. That‘s all that matters. Joyce thinks she can live with it, but if Will keeps yearning for this, just because she helped him a single time almost a year ago, it might ruin him. She thanks whatever god or entity might be out there that her son goes from fidgeting around in her arms, making himself comfortable, to just snoring softly. It really happens within seconds. And for maybe ten or twenty more seconds, Joyce admires his slightly parted, rosy lips. His stubby nose that twitches in between breaths. The world around her fades.

 

* * *

 

Joyce wakes to darkness. Well, relative darkness. Sunlight still casts at least some orange rays into the small bedroom. The alarm clock shows 8:30. Joyce‘s brows furrow at the sight. 8:30. God, she has slept for eight hours straight. When did that last happen? She can‘t remember.

 

And Will... he‘s still asleep as well, his slender form breathing calmly next to her. Joyce‘s mouth runs dry. Or has it been dry all along? She has no idea. All she knows is, the sight laid out for her is nothing short of intoxicating. The way the blanket has fallen off of the two of them. The way Will must have stirred in his sleep so that his shirt is now exposing the pale skin of his stomach. Yes, this is definitely the reason for Joyce finding her throat deprived of any moisture. And she‘s not even disgusted by her reaction.

 

Carefully, slowly, Joyce sticks out a finger. Shaking, it pokes right into her son‘s stretched little belly button. It‘s so wonderfully warm.

 

She shouldn‘t do this.

 

From touching with just a finger, Joyce goes to letting her palm rest on Will‘s flat stomach.

 

She shouldn‘t do this.

 

It rubs a small circle there, absorbing his heat. Heat is good. It means he is safe.

 

She shouldn‘t do this.

 

The hem of his shirt is loose around his chest. Joyce‘s hand wanders underneath.

 

_She shouldn‘t do this!_

 

Too late. Her touch on his small, pebbled nipples wakes him up. „Mommy...“ he whines.

 

„Shh.“ Joyce breathes out. „I love you, baby.“

 

As Will realizes what is happening, he doesn‘t flinch away. Joyce would have stopped in that case, but he lets it happen, becomes active again himself. Will just repeats what he did earlier, hands feeling for Joyce‘s upper body. She moans, only to have that noise swallowed by her son when he captures her lips with his clumsily, teeth clacking. Joyce can‘t help but giggle a tiny little bit. She breaks up their kiss to pull the shirt over his head and his sweatpants off him.

 

It all happens so fast. Her slipping out of her clothes as well. Fixating on his perfect private parts that have changed so much over the last year. He is fourteen now. He is larger. With hair. And still, everything about her son seems so smooth, so perfect. He doesn‘t smell like man yet. No, he is just a bit too young for that, and if Joyce had a say in it, he‘d stay like this forever. An inch or two smaller than her, soft, sweet, his voice cracking and hitching. And _always here with her_.

 

His shaft is smooth in her hand. Longer, with more girth than she remembers it. A drawn-out moan falls from him with her first stroke. „Mom! C-can I...?“

 

„Of course, sweetie.“ Joyce whispers. „Here, I‘ll help you.“ Going on stroking, she guides his hand right in between her legs. It dawns on her than that he has no idea. None at all. But that‘s okay. Joyce keeps on instructing him, with her fingers as well as gentle words murmured against his forehead, like „Stay there. Right there.“ Joyce makes sure to give a good response whenever his fingers find the right spots.

 

Building up confidence doesn‘t take long. Will loses his hesitant ways, and Joyce feels it‘s okay to let go of his hand and instead give hit fuzzy balls some kind attention. Her son‘s uneven breath catches from that. „You‘re doing this so good, baby.“ Joyce praises over another jolt of electricity from her core, where Will has gone to entering her in exactly the right way. Maybe it‘s coincidence, but it just feels so good. _So good_.

 

This is all so perfect. Joyce looks into her son‘s eyes to find nothing but love and she hopes she can convey exactly that to him. Because he is perfect. His slim, lean body and all its individual parts. Including those that are there to make him feel good with slow caresses and strokes.

 

After a while, Will begins desperately reaching for her with his free hand, seeking leverage. And Joyce still takes it slow. Just as slow as he takes it, working her up, coincidentally brushing over the right spots that drive her crazy. That push her further and further up until-

 

„Will-“ Joyce gasps before she feels the fall, the jump over the edge of the cliff. For the seconds it takes, she stops whatever she was doing, because it‘s so blinding she just _can‘t_ go on.

 

„Mom?“ Will asks over her panting. „Was... was it-?“

 

„Perfect.“ Joyce breathes. „You‘re perfect, sweetie.“ Perfect. Perfect. _Perfect!_ Because however clumsy and inexperienced he may be, he made it all about her, as if she had any right to this kind of pleasure. As if she had any right to receive this from her fourteen year old.

 

Joyce notices that she has withdrawn from him in the wake of her own climax, and now his smooth penis is just standing there, red and throbbing and needy. And Joyce‘s mouth isn‘t dry anymore. „I love you so much.“

 

„Love you too, mom.“

 

For just a moment, Joyce cradles her baby boy. But he needs more from her right now. His well-deserved reward. He is slick in her mouth, leaking. Will cries out, he spasms underneath her. It‘s probably almost too much for him to bear. He‘s so sensitive, so responsive, all strangled cries and trembling limbs.

 

So it doesn‘t take long for Will to thrust into her mouth, squeaking, emptying himself so that Joyce can swallow and delight in the pride that she can be there for him through this so vulnerable moment.

 

Her sweat cools Joyce off when she rolls over to rest next to her son once again. Almost immediately he presses his slender body to hers, seeking comfort in the afterglow of his release. Is this a regular thing? This need for physical contact and affection after a climax? How does he deal with it when he is alone, with no one to hold him and whisper to him. Does he even know just how perfect he is without Joyce telling him? She drapes the sheets over both of them, determined to make up for it.

 

* * *

 

The clock reads 9:10 when the silence is broken for the first time. It‘s Will‘s stomach. Right. Food. The hunger is pulling on Joyce as well. She remembers telling him she wants to order something. Well, it‘s not too late for that. „I‘ll get us something to eat.“ she says softly.

 

Will stretches his naked body in her embrace. „Yeah, please.“ he sighs.

 

Joyce regrets leaving the warmth of the bed immediately, but she dresses in her bathrobe without complaining. She knows they‘re going to stay up all night, but that‘s okay, even if she usually wouldn‘t allow that. Pizza, movies, and cuddling. That will be their night, because they need it right now.

  
Joyce taps down the hall to the wall-mounted phone. She picks up the phone book from the table to look up the number for Salvatore‘s. It‘s just that she doesn‘t get to dial before the phone, that she is just reaching for, springs to life, ringing. And Joyce smiles. She calls for Will.

**Author's Note:**

> That's it. So long, folks, this series is officially finished. My long fics will return in time, though, and I'm SUPER excited to finish them both (which I will, eventually) 
> 
> Leave a comment, even if you're just here to call me disgusting and sick.
> 
> also, yeah, I remember a certain someone hoping for a threesome, but I couldn't get that to work. Like, in terms of credibility.


End file.
